It’s only been six months since the witch took up residence in our village. Six months since she beguiled our hometown, and charmed them with that accursed fungus. It drove us, and many others, out of our homes. The sick were cured of their condition, and our starvation came to an end, but at what cost? We were forced to eat living bugs and decaying birds under her reign, all while she got to enjoy the luxury offerings made in the name of Lady Coedraig.

After lining another section of the grass up with dried wood, I send a sign to our torchbearers. One by one, they set the long wall ablaze. The fire spreads quickly, jumping to each neighboring pyre by the wind’s guidance. The fungal blooms in the fields immediately begin to wither and die, their roots being scorched away by the blowing embers. Some of our soldiers toss in the final boar corpses into the midst, once the fire has caught on. We managed to salvage some of the lesser afflicted boars for meat and bone; the adult males, however, were less lucky. They had fungal blooms growing from their mouths and ears, sprouting from them like a seedbed. They were likely on their last legs even before they ran rampant in the woods.

Finally, after all of the animals had been rid of, we held a small funeral for the fallen soldier. After mourning him proper, we made sure to cleanse his armaments in the flames, and branded his name on the side of the blade. Amidst his personal belongings, we found an old talisman of Coedraig. A fruits-shaped crest, adorned with swirling patterns and held aloft by a small chain. It smelled strongly of perfume. Surprisingly, we also found a dusty glass bottle of fungal honey. Although it hadn’t been consumed, he had apparently held on to a dosage of it all this time. Perhaps it was to remind him of what he was fighting against, or perhaps he kept it around to survive in an emergency. Either way, he took his own life once he realized that he had been affected. It must’ve been a benign, special reason.

The village down below had settled and ceased their festivities. Flocks of ravens swarmed the sky, each looking for new prey to feast upon. The ravens were often attracted to the corpses left behind in the wake of the Tender Rust. It was crucial that they be disposed of fully, lest the ravens spread the afflicted even farther. It cannot be allowed to go out of control.

I go out for my daily patrol, seeking out new signs of life within the woods. Although the fungal infection consumed a lot of life, it also gave rise to a lot of new life. Bugs, in particular. Large beetles became commonplace in the region after the fungal infection, and are primarily responsible for its large rate of transmission. They are also capable of feeding on the fungus, which increases their reproductive rates. The fungus, in turn, sprouts from their bodies upon death. If they’re lucky. Strangely, the bugs never seem to stray too far away from the fungal areas. It’s like they’re mesmerized by it.

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I’m ripped away from my thoughts as I hear the noise of something rustling in the underbrush. Before long, I spotted my quarry: a large reindeer. Too large for me to fight alone. Or at close range, for that matter. Its weight would crush me in an instant. Upon closer inspection, both its eyes seem to have been replaced with fungal blooms. Several species of insects swarm around its head, attempting to pick at the honeyed substance resting on its flesh. It shakes its head in agitation, clearly enraged by the sensation.

If I can just get close enough, I might be able to put it out of its misery quickly. With it being blind, it won’t see me coming. The sound of the insects will probably mask any footsteps. Calling my men over, however, will be sure to scare it away. I’ll have to take the risk. The risk is great. But… I have to try. If we lose track of it now, it’ll surely be feasted upon by countless creatures. Who knows where it’ll run off to.

I unsheathe my sword quietly, making sure not to alert the beast. Reaching for a small flask on my hip, I coat the weapon’s blade in an oily, flammable substance. Although I can’t set my sword ablaze before I’ve taken down the beast, I can quickly light a fire to cauterize any potential wounds before the infection spreads, in the event that it turns on me. In this way, I’ve saved myself a dozen times from animal attacks. It’s a tactic not all of my men dare use. To burn one’s flesh, to chop off a finger. I would give my all, to cease the encroaching curse.

With surprising ease, I sneak up on the beast and stab it in - what I assumed to be - a fatal spot of its neck. Unfortunately, it buckles, and screams. It turns to me with its large antlers, and uses all its weight to push me over. I twist the blade and drive it deeper, but its muscles are too tough to be pierced. The reindeer kicks with its hooves, striking me straight on the shin. The armor dents and I can feel its sharp edge scrape against my leg. Taking out a small dagger, I manage to strike its neck a second time - this time in a softer, weaker spot. It screams again, but stumbles and falls next to me. It struggles and squirms, a torrent of blood covering my face. As the reindeer comes to a halt, I bask in the adrenaline. The gravity of the situation slowly begins to dawn on me. Involuntarily, my body erupts into laughter.

You will die for your hubris, old fool.